


Exorcists Don't Get Vacations

by HarkinTheDestroyer



Series: Various Otherworldly Vacations (Intended or Otherwise) [1]
Category: D.Gray-man, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Needs a Vacation, Allen Walker Needs a Hug, Allen Walker is a Little Shit, Angst, Dabi and Todoroki Shouto Are Siblings, Dabi is Todoroki Touya, Established Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Sort Of, Timcanpy is adorable, Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor's Bad Parenting, Todoroki Shouto is Bad at Feelings, Yagi Toshinori | All Might Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarkinTheDestroyer/pseuds/HarkinTheDestroyer
Summary: Allen Walker needed a break from the drama that was his life. What he needed was some well deserved vacation time. Too bad exorcists don't get any sick days. So, taking a page out of a demonic general's book; Allen left a vague note and disappeared off the face of the Earth... well, more like dimension.Meanwhile...When Shouta first heard of the "Explosion killer"... well, lets just say he never expected a politely mannered teenager with an appetite larger than All Might.
Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Cross Marian & Allen Walker
Series: Various Otherworldly Vacations (Intended or Otherwise) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126448
Comments: 24
Kudos: 108





	1. Oven to Frying Pan is no Improvement

**Author's Note:**

> Allen decides to take an interdimensional vacation for a lovely three months while the heroes are troubled by the appearance of a new serial killer.

Has anyone ever _really_ ever been in a situation where the world itself rested on their shoulders? Have they felt the pressure of being the singular being capable of turning the tide of a global war? To have to choose between family, friends, mental health, or the overall wellbeing of humanity's entirety and live with the consequences of seemingly irrelevant decisions. Is it selfish to preserve mental health while sacrificing loved ones or is it fruitless to push aside all personal emotion for bonds against the hellish wave of insanity that follows? Every person has a breaking point no matter how strong their internal and external may appear. Flecks of emotion faded to dust, trauma hoarded and ignored, the gradual plethora of scars that are not all superficial. Who has truly felt the weight of the world? 

…Atlas is _not_ a valid answer. 

Stress is a parasitic jitterbug that’s infection runs deep and exhaustive. Situations, people, events, and even thoughts can turn as quickly as the tide with the pearly white moon of anxiety. How could anyone be calm when nearly a hundred disastrous dramas lurked around every innocuous corner? Once again, no matter the person, everyone feels the tight strings of worry put taut oh, every once in a while. Lavi tended to become eerily silent, slipping into the analytic brooding facade of someone truly of the bookman clan. Both Lenalee and Komui tended to throw themselves at the unfathomable ocean of coffee and paperwork (No one ever complained about the drop in Komurins). The stupid anti-social swordsman tended to forget the importance of sleep and make the decision that soba would be a wonderful pillow. Krory tended to spiral, Link became frazzled, bookman was slightly more aggressive, Cross was… Cross. Really the only one who handled stress well was Miranda, but she really did not handle anything well, the point should be assumed moot. 

Allen was not a huge fan of stress, worry, anxiety, frazzle, jitters, pressure, and many other synonyms of the deplorable emotion. Quite honestly, he believed himself to have deplorable coping mechanisms for it. Moving forward was fine and all, particularly efficient when it comes to speed walking as quickly as possible in the opposite direction of all current and feasible problems. Unfortunately, this is apparently “ _unhealthy_ ” and “ _really is going to turn you into a_ _moyashi_ _since stressful situations_ _deplete_ _growth hormones_ ” or whatever. Allen had almost punched Lavi for that not-so-subtle jab at his height and emotional stability. Which in all honesty the white-haired teen believed he never really had. Abuse street urchin to insane and dead foster father to the pupil of a sadistic man to– _well_ … it made sense in retrospect. So, in the true manner of someone who is under more pressure than the Mariana Trench with around the same emotional stability as the statue David, Allen decided to do something random and impulsive to escape his problems in the true vision of procrastination. 

With little forethought and half a pencil, he jotted down a notice that he was taking three months of vacation time. Did it matter that exorcists didn’t have things like ‘vacation days’ or ‘sick days’ nor ‘holidays’ and ‘medical leave’? No! Perhaps they did have a medical leave, but that really only applied to the fatally injured and or dead. Allen Walker, the polite and moral exorcist, took a page out of his demonic shishou’s book and decided to go AWOL. He packed his bags, lost Link in a hilarious series of events to be recounted later, shimmied onto the arch, and walked out the first door he came across that looked like it would send him far far away. He may have been laughing, he may have been crying, but none of that matters because he was on vacation and Allen would be damned if he didn’t enjoy it. There were several very important setbacks that he forgo– _hey_ wait! Oh... and he’s gone... _Damn_ , that is a brisk forward walking pace. 

… … … 

Serial killers are just a goddamn pain in the ass to deal with. Depending on how clever or slippery they were it could take months or even years to track them down. Motivations could be political, religious, _pleasurable_ , or an _‘I just didn’t like that guy's face_ ’ sort of thing. Of course, that isn’t to say regular killers weren’t troublesome, serial killers just tended to be in a realm of annoyance on their own . _Especially_ , when they managed to become big enough to gather fans or some sort of deranged following. Copycats _did_ tend to throw off police investigations with their murder-murder copy-copy biz. Not to mention that absolute horror that tended to happen as a result of the press’ gory talons sinking into such a profitable story. The teenage homicides, hero murders, and an influx of Trigger were thankfully kept under the radar but thanks to frustrating probability something was bound to slip through. 

The adequately named “ _Explosion Killer_ ” had slipped through the metaphorical cracks of police and investigative hero agencies conspiracies. They knew as much as they didn’t with this serial killer. According to eyewitness reports, some believed him to be young, a teenager, while others believed him to be old, having whitened hair. He was assumed to be male, much like his motivation was assumed to be religious, and his quirk was believed to have something to do with explosions. What made him unique compared to other current and past serial killers was his disregard for committing this atrocious crime in the normal shadowy alleyways. Streets, restaurants, stores, once even in front of a hero agency. His face was known and yet he easily slipped away, impossible to be found. Hell, there hadn’t even seemed to be a connection between the various victims until Nedzu got involved. 

Aizawa Shouta was tired. No sugar coating it. His eye bags were as deep and dark as the depths of space themselves. Although, sleep was, quite unfortunately, not an option. Aizawa had been overbooked for a patrol, had numerous probably awful ‘heroic motivation’ papers to grade, somehow got roped into a radio show with Mic, and was tasked with keeping a lookout for the Explosion Killer since obviously he didn’t have anything to do and was relatively not over-booked. A lesser hero would have died of sleep deprivation, Aizawa was none such hero (as long as he had a steady supply of caffeine and daily exposure to Present Mic). How Yamada managed to teach, patrol, and run a radio show while still retaining the façade of a chipper and enthusiastic hero, Aizawa would never know. All he could do was hope that the serial killer would be caught, preferably by the police, and he could sleep at some point in the next millennium... 


	2. A Kanda Sized Shoulder Chip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allen helps a disgruntled Shouto escape a flaming trash can.... and Shouto goes shopping with a serial killer.

Hope is as pesky as those blood-sucking mosquitos and more addicting than any common half-assed drug dug up from the streets. It is an unyielding craving for the impossible, a depressingly optimistic wish for the best in the most deplorable of situations well within the predetermined bounds of human nature, overall expected one might say. Fantasies and grand illusions revolving around the presumed green pastures somewhere in the world. Although, more likely equated to the probability of a sleepwalker wondering a cactus convention and coming out unscathed, i.e., positively impossible and most definitely a hop, skip, and a jump away from an extremely painful ambulance trip. Hope is everything if not a fleeting emotion that provides human beings with the strength to push through despairing situations and pull ourselves from the warm embrace of the covers we so wish to remain among. 

It cannot be said that hope does not thrive in despair... just as it cannot be said that despair feeds off hope. To some, it is a useless emotion and to others, it was their everything. Well, more cynical people may believe hope to be is useless. In their opinion, it is much like being optimistic. Yes, positive thoughts may have something to do with good mental health (and yadda-yadda there's probably an esteemed essay) but at the end of the day, it doesn’t  _ really  _ do anything. Motivates perhaps, but unless the hard work is put in...  _ useless _ is all hope is. Aforementioned, this is the  _ more cynical  _ point of view, several well-written, bibliographed, Ph.D. carrying scientists with 12+ years of research probably have some more uplifting mental health-related pluses to hope. This is purely opinion, though, and most opinions tend to be either idiotic or (more than likely) egotistical. Todoroki Shouto tended to lead more towards the former. 

His hope mostly tended to lead towards the more mundane, “ _ I hope we have soba for dinner.”  _

Or the more malicious, “ _ I hope Endeavor forgets to his stupid flame boots and falls down the stairs.” _

None of these hopes were ever to be voiced, but Shouto could understand the uplifting feelings that could come from such thoughts. These thoughts subsequently extended from a little something called childhood trauma and a loathing hatred towards a certain patriarchal parental figure. Specifically, the root word in patriarchal,  _ ‘patr’ _ , which extends from the Latin word  _ ‘Pater’  _ meaning Father. Quite surprising that the scarred son of the #1 hero in regards to property damage and villain injuries would not only have some definite trauma surrounding the sudden disappearance of the Todoroki matriarch but also have a,  _ put mildly _ , strong dislike for his father. (Todoroki, while not one for particularly demining nicknames, had to give some credit to Natsuo’s brilliant flaming trashcan comparison of a certain person.) That wasn’t to say that Todoroki Enji didn’t try...  _ occasionally _ . 

Indeed, upon the rare phenomenon usually involving the alignment of various celestial bodies and if any cursed sarcophagus has been opened lately, Endeavor may be inclined to show some fatherly affection... Ew. Such was the current affliction of one Todoroki Shouto; the unfortunate soul stuck grocery shopping with a surprisingly enthusiastic, neglective father. Originally Natsuo and himself were going to conveniently disappear from the household to run a couple of errands for their elder sister but Natsuo, his  _ frustratingly  _ disorganized brother, had decided to bail as his constant procrastination finally caught up to him in the most dreadful of fashions...  _ midterms _ . Seeing that the youngest of the Todoroki family was about to wander into the larger, dangerous city filled with peril and overly friendly dogs. Endeavor took it upon himself to accompany him since,  _ apparently _ , it was unethical to have a fifteen-year-old run an errand to the grocery story but completely moral to begin said teen's harsh training at five. But that, while a completely valid argument on ethics and personal morals, would not get him out of his current situation. 

This he was trapped... trailing behind Endeavor in his  _ totally convincing  _ civilian clothes like a... a  _ completely unenthusiastic teenager in a grocery store with his verbally aggressive father  _ as he ruthlessly stayed committed to the budget and haggled with elder women over the last of whatever Fuyumi  _ oh-so desired _ for the coming night’s dinner. Resuming the topic of hope, Shouto... had completely given up on any sort of uplifting thoughts or emotions once his father had wondered over to the rather large selection of  _ cabbages  _ that were _ conveniently  _ on sale which Endeavor found positively fascinating. He had long ago perished any thoughts of successfully escape and resigned himself to the deplorable fate of standing in his father’s shadow while he embarrassingly heckled with another shopper for the fifth time that night over  _ cabbages _ . It would have been slightly funny had he not been related to the man. Endeavor made a ‘hmming’ noise as he held up one of the many identical  _ cabbages  _ before returning it. Shouto could hardly resist the exasperated sigh that slipped through his lips. 

“Um... excuse me!” 

His fingers twitched as he ignored the pressing urge to run a hand down his face. There was no chance he was going to be leaving this God-forsaken place anytime soon was there? This would become his final resting place; nestled between the green leaves of the cruciferous vegetables, his soul forever cursed to wander the aisles of overpriced produce. A sad fate indeed. 

“Pardon the interruption!” 

Shouto rubbed his eyes and attempted not to groan as his torturous father picked up  _ yet another damn cabbage _ . He was going to give Natsuo a literal cold shoulder for abandoning him as soon as he escaped this living nightmare. 

“EXCUSE ME!” A loud voice startled him from his thoughts. 

Realizing that one of the background voices from the various shoppers was actually directed towards him, he shot a glare. Normally he might have been slightly more polite, but with the issue of having to deal with an overenthusiastic Endeavor his nerves were beginning to fray, and he doubted he could get through a bland conversation without dropping dead or going insane. So, he glared at the white-haired teen that had dared to interrupt his self-pity. 

“What?” He practically growled. 

A pleasant smile painted itself on the white-haired boy’s face, unhindered by Shouto’s scathing tone. 

“I would like to request your assistance with a pressing matter.” He stated politely. 

Shouto blinked. This was unfortunate since the teen appeared to take that as an agreement. Latching onto his arm, the white-haired weirdo began dragging him towards one of the specially labeled yet indiscriminate aisles. Digging his feet into the tiled flooring Shouto put a stop to their current progression. A curious look was sent towards the multicolored teen. 

“I need permission to leave.” He said with a vague gesture towards his irritating father. 

The other boy nodded; silver eyes lit with understanding. He turned towards Endeavor. 

“I’m borrowing your son....” A pause, “Is that alright?” He stated the question as a mere afterthought. 

Of course, Endeavor, thoroughly distracted by the dreadful  _ cabbages,  _ did nothing to stop his son’s passive kidnapping. Shouto never should have hoped as his father uttered a single distraction  _ ‘hmm’  _ of either appraisal or appreciation towards the horrid, leafed vegetable. 

“Wonderful.” The teen responded with a bright smile, resuming the dragging of a person who had two fine, working legs. 

Pulling him down one of the aisles that appeared to be pet-oriented, Shouto took a moment to observe his casual kidnaper. Snow-white hair, while not necessarily unusual in this day and age, could be slightly strange if the owner did not have some sort of cold, water, or weather-based quirk. Silver-violet eyes, a gruesome arm running across his left eye, gloved hands, strange clothes, eerily pleasant smile that couldn’t possibly be real since nobody could be  _ that  _ pleasant. Overall, the boy that seemed to be around his age had numerous unusual attributes that could be easily dismissed with a second glance. Silver-violets eyes could just be a result of interesting genetics, the scar could very well be a tattoo or some sort of make-up, gloved hands could hint towards a dislike of germ, strange clothes could be explained by merely mentioning that he was a teenager, and the possibly fake smile could just be a result of valuing manners. He was strange and yet all his strangeness was explainable, Shouto wasn’t sure what to think. 

Suddenly the white-haired teen stopped and raised a pale hand towards the top shelf. Shouto followed the finger and his eyes landed on the rather odd sight of a not-bird thing perched on top of what looked to be premium dog treats. It was spherical and a bright shade of yellow gold with an interestingly shaped cross on the front of its... face. Soft looking wings and a softer looking tail... Shouto wasn’t quite sure what to think of it. He spared a look at the white-haired teen who was now sending a scalding glare at the unusual creature. The creature gave a gleaming knife filled smile in return. 

“That’s Timcanpy,” The boy spoke, eyes never moving from the not-bird, “He wants treats but I refused since they wouldn’t fit the budget. He ate my wallet and is now just being unreasonable.” 

Timcanpy made a sort of growling noise but didn’t move from his spot atop the premium dog treats. 

“ _ You don’t even need food _ !” The teen hissed back before turning to Shouto, “I’m a little too short to reach him, so I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind grabbing him since you look to have a good three inches on me. He  _ probably  _ won’t bite.” 

Shouto stared at him like he was insane. 

“I’ll...” The teen started weakly, “help you... with, uh... OH! I’ll help you finish grocery shopping!” 

Well... at this point...  _ anyone  _ would be better than Endeavor. So, with a resigned sigh, Shouto snagged the startled creature by its tail and thrust it into the equally surprised white-haired teen’s arms. While the teen was staring at him with a sparkling sort of admiration the not-bird bit his nose. 

… … … 

“So how was shopping?” Fuyumi questioned hiding her amusement behind the façade of an innocent question. 

Shouto shoved a bag full of  _ ‘perfect’ cabbages  _ into her arms. 

“Here’s your...  _ cabbage.”  _ He growled irritably. 

Fuyumi glanced into the back, eyebrows furring. 

“These are all Bak Choy...” She muttered. 

Shouto groaned loudly and Endeavor punched a wall. 

“It’s fine I can still use it!” She comforted, “But did you guys  _ really  _ think that these were cabbages?” 

Their silence was her only answer. It was around then that Natsuo made his entrance scrolling on his phone as he settled onto the couch. Feeling his heckles rise with his elder brothers’ nonchalance, Shouto placed a frosty hand on his shoulder making him jump. 

“I thought you had homework...” He growled menacingly. 

Natsuo fumbled for his phone as it slipped from his fingers. A violent shiver overtaking him. 

“A-ah yah! I finished over an hour ago!” He replied hastily, “You guys were gone forever.” 

Shouto scowled. He never wanted to think of the 7-hour round trip ever again. Releasing his brother's now ice-covered shoulder he sat down next to him. For a moment they sat in awkward silence. 

“Soooo...” Natsuo began, “Have you seen the news about the serial killer  _ Explosion...  _ something rather?” 

Shouto gave him a look. 

“I applaud your conversation topic.” He deadpanned. 

Natsuo gapped and began pulling up a picture on his phone. After scrolling for a minute, he clicked on an image. 

“They finally have a face for the monster whose killed sixteen people in broad daylight.” He replied, turning the phone so Shouto could see the picture. 

It was now his turn to gape at the slightly blurry picture of the boy who just helped him find all those dreadful  _ cabbage choys _ . 

“I just went shopping with a serial killer.” He breathed. 

Natsuo gave him a look. 

“I know he’s not  _ really  _ nice and has the temperament of a flaming trashcan on a hot day... but he’s still our father.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Munser: What is animex? Also thankyou.  
> melovecats: I can't totally take credit for the idea. I saw an author do something similar but slightly more gory in a discontinued story. I am going in a completely different direction than they were but I can't take credit for the idea. Glad you like it!  
> Anon: Yup. The world shall burn. Allen shall watch.
> 
> Author Notes:  
> As always I encourage comments! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'll try for updates every Wednesday, but no guarantees!


	3. A Disciple's Hard Place and Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interdimensional debts...

Cross Marian was only pleasant,  _ bearable  _ is perhaps a better word, around women. Flatter, praise, fine drink,  _ basic human decency… _ all only shared flirtatiously with the finer sex. To the wind was thrown his usual piss-off arrogant attitude, replaced instead with a tone and swagger that would have made the moon herself turn a scandalous shade of rose-pink. He became a honey bee, drunk dizzy on the sweet flowery nectar of women. Routinely, Cross left every visited village half-robbed, broken-hearted, boozeless, and the greater majority of men (rarely some women as well) pining after his head and a silver platter. Of course, the women he courted into being blindsided the rather obvious hurricane Cross were powerful, prominent, dangerous, and absolutely capable of severing his family jewels by the next morn if they so wished. Drug empresses, smuggling autarchs, and brothel queens, whom seemed more amused by his leeching antics rather than offended, something to be thankful for indeed.

To sum up Cross Marian in simple terms, _well_ , one could describe him as a ripe old deplorable bastard with questionable morals and an innate lack of empathy. He was an asshole that was irritatingly well-off and well-dressed for a frequent and sudden traveler. Well, _in_ _reality_ , he really wasn’t _that_ well-off. Several not-so-fine established had plenty of unpaid receipts stating the exact contrary. The only reason such a lavish lifestyle of lavish booze, exorbitant women, and fine cloth was mostly due to the struggling efforts of his unfortunate apprentice. The one whom fetched the _expensive_ fermented liquids no matter how much he had to beg, the forlorn fellow order to scrub the stubborn grim from _expensive_ woolen clothes which was _so incredibly_ easy, and the hapless pupil who was stuck with caring for his master’s _expensive_ debts. Kudos for surviving under this esteemed exorcist general! For all your trouble and emotional strife, you get a kick to the face and a bed on the floor!

Basically, being Cross’s apprentice was neither a walk in the park nor particularly pleasant. Being Cross Marian’s pupil meant you were more likely to get robbed and abused for your excellent gambling skills than actually learn something. Children are also more likely to develop estranged personalities, questionable morals, and several lifetimes worth of debt… but hey, at least… there’s… u-um… FINE! There’s no positive to this sort of situation! No monetary compensation or praise or anything of course, but hey; yay for surviving! No one shall ever hear your screams! And if they do? They won’t care and laugh harder, or make some sort of offhanded comment about  _ not liking dirty things _ . (Well, whose fault is that!?) Or they’ll toss you to a bunch of bloodthirsty Akuma with nothing more than an offhanded ‘don’t die’ and an un-activated weapon. Say hello to years of wonderful,  _ wonderful  _ childhood trauma!

Anyway, the difficulties of having a master with such a, uh…  _ free  _ lifestyle is that they  _ inevitably  _ hit their disciples over the head with a mallet, and leave with a last reprimanding jab and vague directions to a place that may or may not actually exist. And also many receipts. S-so many r-receipts… Put as simply as possible, everyone has that one  _ skin  _ peeling, eyeball _ drying, goddamn irritating  _ bastard. Whether it be that political asshole at family dinners or that personal space violating jerk at the office. Hell, even that one acquaintance, that friend of a friend, who  _ just  _ never manages to read the  _ god damn room _ . Yup, that single, sole, unaccompanied, unique, solitary,  _ all on their own _ , horrendous human being. There are just  _ those  _ people, those ones who are slightly more likely to throat punched by others, and Cross Marian just happened to be one such individual.

A disgusting cockroach scuttling from one perfectly fine town to the next, seemingly impossible to exterminate,  _ freaking  _ (THIS is an innuendo!) out the women and exploiting food and drink with neither a please nor payment. In fact, if one were to give such a cockroach a surly personality, several addictions, and a general disregard to the human species as a whole, it would practically be a spitting image of the man. It really was too bad Cross was assumed dead by the hands of oh-so-lucky Apocryphos. Although Allen did have a hard time believing his master was dead, he was, after all, an aforementioned cockroach. Surely it would have taken a little more effort to squash him. To wrap one’s head around the fact that the powerful, untouchable person who had pulled him from the brink of despair and self-catastrophe could be dead… well, it was hard to believe. Allen still held the despairing hope that Cross Marian would once again walk through the towering doors of the black order, mask unbroken and laughing about his idiotic pupil believing him dead. The scent of cigarettes and booze that clung to him as familiar as his bright red mane of hair. But of course, none of this was true. A bald-faced lie.

It would neither surprise nor startle Allen if his master was still alive. Cross was a demon, and, logistically speaking, demons are near impossible to kill. Allen was quite positive that the only things capable of taking down the beast that was Cross Marian were either a lack of proper alcohol or the expression of basic human decency. Neither of which Cross seemed particularly keen on, so he would likely live on for many,  _ many  _ more years to come. The order never  _ did  _ find Cross’ body, only a disturbing amount of blood and that irritating half-mask. It had been a beautifully painted illusion of death, splattered bits of gore upon the window glass as though a scarlet rain had passed, all evidence pointing towards a calamitous finale. Shattered glass like tiny diamonds spilled across the carpet, the forenoon light streaming in from a hole in which a missing body fell. A fact alone that pointed toward his master’s life; nobody.

“Hey!” Someone shouted in the distance.

There was also the fact that debts of varying expenses were still managing to find their ways into a poor student’s hands. Allen sighed as he glanced up the fluffy clouds meandering across the sky, arm dramatically draped across his forehead. This was lesser evidence considering this recent revelation regarding Cross’s debts.

“That’s him!” Inconsequential background noise.

It had started a week back after venturing into a casino in order to gamble. The bouncer had stopped him before he could enter, questioning if he was truly ‘Allen Walker’. He of course had indicated the positive, only to have the man roughly drag him to a back alley.

“You sure? He’s just a kid.” There were a lot of kids in the park.

Apparently, Cross had once again marked him a soul heir to an extensive number of debts. Which was rather odd considering current circumstances.

“He looks dead…” A lot of things look dead.

“You idiot! Just grab him!” Slightly concerning.

“But…” Understandable dead things are gross.

“Just do it!” Slightly more concerning.

As it was turning out…

Large hands grabbed his ankles, yacking him from his comfy spot on the grass. Two rather stereotypical muscly and ginormous men held him upside-down, identical smirks on their faces as similar as their neck tattoos. Allen almost resisted the urge to sigh. He knew this type.

“Hey, kid…” A smaller man, and probably the boss, started, “You know anybody by the name of Cross Marian? It just so happens that a guy called ‘Allen Walker’ generously decided to pay-off his debts.”

…Cross’ debts just so happened to be interdimensional.

Allen let his arms droop as depression began to loom over him. Why did this always happen? He was on vacation… Why did his stupid master’s debts have to follow him?

With a resigned sigh, Allen asked the dreaded question, “How much do I owe you?”

The silver-haired sleaze had the audacity to blink at the question like Allen was the one holding  _ him  _ upside-down and demanding money. At least  _ he  _ wasn’t the one wearing a purple tuxedo in broad daylight while donning tacky glasses and smoking off-brand cigarettes. Mr. Sleazy took a long drag of his tobacco stick, seemingly trying to regain some of his former ambiance.

“Whoa, whoa now kid? Aren’t ya’ going to deny my claims or something? You’re a kid, show some sort of cheekiness or something.” He muttered.

Allen gave him a blank stare.

“Oh, please excuse my petulance. If you want I can punch one of your thugs or something.” Allen stated with a cheery smile, “But I’d rather not considering you’ll probably just track me down again or whatever. I’m on vacation. I don’t want to deal with people like you.”

Once again Mr. No-style just blinked, although this time he did regain his composure much quicker. With a dismissing gesture shot at the muscle bond thugs, Allen was dropped to the ground with a thud and a groan. Sitting up he rubbed his head and pulled out a deck of cards.

“So, would you be opposed to settling this debt through a game of cards, or are we going the manual labor route?” Allen questioned, tossing the cards to Mr. UglySuit.

Out of reflex, the man seemed to catch the cards, before settling down on the grass in front of the white-haired teen.

“Sure kid, I’ll humor you.” He smiled, “Names Giran. Beat me in a game of poker and consider all debts settled. However, if  _ I  _ win, well, you’re going to be serving us for the foreseeable future.”

Allen nodded with a pleasant smile. It was quite obvious how this would play out. Giran dealt the cards, no doubt rigging the deck, while Allen per the norm, employed the various techniques he usually used.

Not fifteen minutes later was Giran several pairs of clothing lighter, but also in the process of nursing a wounded pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this chapter dedicated to justAleks! I'm glad you like my stories and writing style! In all honesty, I wasn't really sure about it. I couldn't tell whether or not I was writing like the 19th century romantic or if I was being too sarcastic and goofy. Anyway, please enjoy! As always I encourage comments, helpful criticism, and praise! (Inflate my ego... I dare you)


End file.
